


Cat's Eye

by Reiya_Wakayama



Series: The Cat's Meow [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Killing, Everyday Life, Gen, Poisoning, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiya_Wakayama/pseuds/Reiya_Wakayama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, a typical day for Sherlock is not at all what John assumes it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat's Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Another addition to my Cat’s Meow series. I figure, it will be better to do some back story before plowing ahead with the plots from the show as I’ve done before.

A typical morning routine went along the same line usually: Sherlock woke John up and had the human feed him. Once he had eaten what he wanted, it was time for a wash as John got ready for work at the clinic. Once finished, around the same time John did, he watched him gather his things together and opening the window a crack, he would give Sherlock a scratch before leaving. After a few minutes, he would leave, via the same window left open, squeezing through and nosing it closed after him.

After that, things tended to go off course. He had the whole of London memorized already, but still, it needed updating when things were changed. He also checked with his people, a collection of stray cats, dog, birds and other animals living on their own in London, to see if there was any new news or cases for him.

What John didn’t know was that Sherlock was a singularly unusual cat: he could find anything, if he set himself to it. He was a consulting detective of sorts, others often coming to him from other parts of the city to find this for them, or figure out something.

He was smart, though that wasn’t saying much since everyone else was an idiot, except for those few that had potential to become more than they were. Those he worked with and guided along the way. Here was one such now, though he was not privy to these thoughts Sherlock had of him.

“Lestrade.” He acknowledged the smaller gray cat that walked up to him. In the light, his fur almost shone silver, his amber eyes somber as they regarded Sherlock. “What’s happened?”

“Another poisoning; we’ve not been able to pinpoint who is giving the poison. It’s the same as before though: antifreeze. One of Layla’s kittens.”

He knew Layla, the mother hen of London, who took in strays of all species and cared for them until they got back on their feet. As a human, she was honored among them and marked as not to be touched and her home was sanctuary. She’d helped Sherlock a time or two, when he’d been hurt, before he’d met John.

“I’m on it. Where?” He asked, mind already working.

“In the back alley behind the tailor’s on 18th street.” The route sprang to the forefront of his mind and he was off, Lestrade keeping easy pace with him as they scaled walls and fences, going through back alleys and over roofs to get to their destination.

Others were gathered around the small brown body. The kitten was small, only a few months old, barely old enough to go outside. He circled it, looking for any clues. There was a smear of something on the little one face and he leaned closer, sniffing at it: beef broth. Strong enough to mask the odor of antifreeze.

There was also a fine white powder on his paw, residue from wherever it was he had taken the poisoned food. It couldn’t have been far, antifreeze worked fast on the small ones. He’d only have been able to travel for a few minutes at first before the poison had gotten into his joints and started to spread. Sniffing at his paw, Sherlock sneezed, wiping his nose on his paw: salt, finely ground into a powder.

Sherlock stalked away as the answer appeared, clear as day. Tail lashing he sat down, licking absently at his leg. “The butcher’s a couple blocks to the east of here. He is laying out bowls of beef broth laced with antifreeze. He dislikes cats, most likely from a bad past experience.” He concluded.

He ignored the hiss behind him walking away as Lestrade shifted and grew in size. He like other humans that were smart enough to figure out what he had long ago found out: that with will and a certain twist of the mind, both cat and human could trade places. He’d been human originally, but preferred his cat form, mainly because it allowed him to get into places he normally couldn’t.

Lestrade was another of those who had learned, after some instructing from Sherlock, and came to him with cases for both sides. At the moment, there was nothing interesting going on that required him in human form.

Walking onto the main road, he wove through legs, uncaring of where he was head so long as he went. It wasn’t long before a sleek, black car pulled up and stopped beside him. Glaring at it, he sat and started to wash himself as the door opened.

A sleek brownish red cat oozed out of the door held open by his assistant. Mycroft ignored his glare as he walked forward. “Sherlock, how is John?” He asked staying standing.

“How is the diet going?” he goaded, fur standing slightly on end as his brother gave him a haughty look that said he wouldn’t stoop down to Sherlock’s level and answer.

“I have a case for you.” He said instead.

“You always have a case for me, doesn’t mean I’ll take it.” He quipped, sitting up again now that he was finished setting his fur to rights.

“The file is at your flat. Please return the item once you collect it.” There was the unfortunate incident a few years ago when Sherlock had decided he wanted to test the unstable substance that had been stolen. The abandoned warehouse where he had done it was still in ruins and condemned until further notice.

Ignoring his snort, Mycroft nodded and left, jumping back into the car through the door that was held open by his assistant. By the time they had turned the corner, he would have already changed back. Stretching, he took off in the opposite direction. He had a stop to make before heading back home.

Billy opened the back door on the first yowl. Shortly, Angelo was brushing the waiter away, telling him to get back to work. “Ah, Sherlock. It is good to see you. What will it be?” He asked, crouching down to scratch Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock gave his version of a shrug, his ear flicking disdainfully. “We’ve some beef ravioli leftover.” Sherlock flicked his tail and the man grinned. Standing, he went to grab a few of the morsels to give to the cat.

He could have changed back into his human form, Angelo had seen him change before, but it was too much work and he enjoyed his cat form much more. The man came back with a small plate and set it down next to a bowl of water. “On the house, as usual.” He grinned down at him and left to continue working as Sherlock ate.

Finished a few minutes later, he set about cleaning himself thoroughly. Angelo came back, just as he finished. “Come back anytime, Sherlock. You’re always welcome.” Picking up the plate, he left, shutting the door behind him.

Using a convenient stack of crates, he crested the wall into the alley on the other side. It led straight to home. It was still early and John would be at the clinic for some hours. Nosing the window open, he slipped back in and shut it.

Between one blink and the next, he was shifting, lifting his tall frame from the floor to pad through the flat. The file was there waiting for him. Reading through it, he had the answer by the time he finished. Fishing out the cell phone Mycroft had left, he texted the solution to him and then hide the phone. It would certainly come in handy later on. The file was put through the shredder in John’s office. Mycroft’s people would be by later to clean it out.

The sound of a car door shutting announced John was home from the clinic. Shifting quickly, he walked into the main room. The sound of John and Mrs. Hudson talking down stairs floated up to him as he stretched his frame across the sofa, eyeing the door.

Finally, John started up, tread labored and punctured with the sound of his cane hitting each stair. Most days, he was able to ignore the painful limp in his leg, but on the occasion, it came back to remind him that it was still there. Must have been a bad day at the clinic.

The door opened and John limped in, hand clutching at his cane in a white knuckled grip. Shutting it, he limped to the sofa and settled himself into it, a grateful groan escaping as he was finally able to take his weight off of his leg.

After a few minutes, he turned to Sherlock. “So, how was your day?” He asked, smiling at the cat. Sherlock just flicked an ear, the usual.

 **End.**


End file.
